I waited in my hiding place, suspicious they might be faking silence as a lure – I’d been caught out by that trick before, but I was more cautious now. Minutes passed. My toes began to ache from the penetrating cold. At last I opened my eyes.
Annie Burrows stood not more than a few feet in front of me. Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of blue – violet almost, a peculiar, unnatural shade – set too close to the narrow bridge of her nose, giving the impression she was cross-eyed, though closer inspection revealed this was not the case. Unsettling, all the same.
‘They’ve gone.’
She paused, waiting to see her words register, before turning and walking away across the grass. Bewildered, I withdrew from the shadow of the mausoleum to watch the young maid disappear through the lychgate. A single magpie flew out from the branches of the yew and landed on the path before me, its sleek black plumage glinting in the weak morning light that was only now beginning to penetrate the cloud. He strutted on his spindly legs, his head tilted as he fixed me with his calculating eye.
‘One for sorrow,’ I murmured as I dropped down upon the bench succumbing to a wave of desperate misery that quite threatened to overwhelm me. ‘Oh, Gerald.’ His name escaped me as a mournful whisper. I sought comfort from a happy memory: a warm July day before the war, a picnic. I could recall the moment in clear detail: the burbling brook, a tartan blanket, bitter ginger ale – tangy relief to our parched throats – and the brush of Gerald’s arm against mine as we bathed in the sunshine. It had been a perfect afternoon. I could even hear our laughter, hear his voice. Every tiny facet of the day was crystalline, everything, that is, but Gerald’s face. That precious part of the picture proved frustratingly elusive. When I tried to focus on it, I found it clouded – blurred and vague. My heart ached.
What I had always feared was coming to pass: I was beginning to forget him.
For a long while after Gerald’s death, I feared I had surrendered my sanity to grief – in the early days, I had certainly surrendered my will to live. For the first day or so after it happened, Matron, a stern Welsh woman with a reputation for brooking no nonsense, had been surprisingly indulgent and understanding. I lay immobile in my bed, unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable, even, to weep. My fellow VAD nurses spoke in hushed almost reverential whispers as they moved around our tent, eager not to disturb me. Their sympathy was as tangible as their relief that the tragedy had not been theirs.
When I showed no signs of improvement, Matron had suggested a trip home might sort me out, but as my stupor spread from a few days into a week, her tone became more strident, her patience wearing thin, until a sojourn at home was not a suggestion but an order. The girls packed my things for me. I think we all understood I would not be coming back.
I can’t remember much of the journey from the continent, I had lost all interest in life by then. I do remember standing at the ship’s rail as she rolled across the churning grey Channel. I remember holding onto the rain-soaked railing and thinking how slippery it was beneath my freezing fingers. I rested my booted foot on the bottom rung, staring at the heaving waves as they crashed against the hull. My head dropped towards my chest as I strained to hear the siren’s call enticing me from beneath the surging waves, the spray spitting in my face with contemptuous disregard for my suffering.
The ship listed and I stumbled sideways. An officer caught my arm and steadied me, his face half concealed by a bandage. He shouted over the roar of the waves that it might be best if we go back in, and I offered no resistance as he took my elbow and guided me through the iron door. He said something to a nurse inside, something I couldn’t hear, and she came to me as he disappeared down the stairs, his heavy boots clanking against the steel grated steps to the lower deck. Her face softened when she saw my blank expression. She led me back to my quarters and put me to bed, tucking the blankets about me so tightly I could barely breathe. Perhaps she thought they might hinder any further attempts at wandering.
My mother met me off the boat when it docked. Our elderly chauffeur had driven her down, all the way to Portsmouth – goodness knows where they got the petrol. I remember being startled by the juxtaposition of our shining motorcar next to the unloading detritus of war: the gravely wounded on stretchers, the shattered bodies and blood-soaked bandages. The same nurse escorted me off, her arm firm around my back as she helped me down the gangplank, one faltering step after another.
She said something to my mother as she handed me over, but her words escaped me – lost amongst the shouts and the moans, the slamming of ambulance doors and the whine of engines. I was becoming accustomed by that time to people discussing me as if I wasn’t there. It was to continue for weeks after I returned – Dr Mayhew shut away with my parents. I was too numb to feel any resentment. I would get better eventually, everyone assured me in cheery voices dripping with insincerity and trimmed with doubt. I was not to be left alone, Dr Mayhew had advised. Close supervision was required for someone plunging to such perilous depths. Home, he warned, might not be a suitable environment. Options had been discussed.
And then my dear sister Madeleine had arrived, bringing quiet compassion, sympathy and understanding. Gradually, the edges of the yawning cavity left by Gerald’s death began to contract. The emptiness receded, little by little, though it never vanished. I was at least able to rise from my bed, eat, think and occasionally I even managed a wan smile, just for a moment, until I remembered again. It was, Madeleine assured me, the beginning of my recovery and I was to force myself towards it, like an exhausted mountaineer with the pinnacle in sight, because the alternative was too awful to consider.
It was proving to be a long and arduous climb. There were still some who anticipated my fall.
I was late to rise, following yet another disturbed night, but I found I could get away with being a lie-abed these days. I had few pressures on my time, and Mother went to great lengths to ensure I wasn’t taxed in any way.
Having availed myself of the pitcher and basin on the washstand, I dressed without fuss, drifting towards the draped windows as I fastened my locket about my neck. Once done, I reached up and thrust apart the heavy curtains, blinking against the sunlight that flooded the room.
Annie Burrows appeared below me, carrying a pail of ash towards the flowerbeds, her ginger hair vibrant in the morning sun. The cinders would be scattered to enrich the soil, but it was not the performance of this daily chore that drew my attention – it was Annie’s extraordinary behaviour.
She was talking to herself in a most animated manner, gesticulating with her free hand before breaking into smiles – in an odd way she looked almost radiant. With anyone else, it might have been amusing – charming even – to see them so caught up in their own little world, but with Annie, the whole display was rather eerie.
She stopped. Her head shot round to fire at me a scowl so targeted I recoiled into the curtain folds, taken aback by the animus it appeared to contain. My heart beat faster and it felt like an age before I had the courage to peek out from behind the jacquard screen. She was gone; the garden was quite empty. Only my discomfort remained.
I had by this time missed breakfast, but I knew Mother would be taking tea in the morning room, and I resolved to join her there – a cup of tea would be just the ticket to restore my equanimity and set me up for the day.
As I started to make my way across the hall I caught sight of my reflection in the foxed glass of the mirror hanging above the fireplace and I drew up short. I backtracked to stand before it, my fingers straying to the pale blue cardigan I had donned – it looked incongruous against the heavy black of my dress.
The reintroduction of colour to my clothing was a very recent concession to my parents. They had, in truth, become embarrassed by my funereal attire. In their eyes my bereavement lacked legitimacy – Gerald and I had not been officially engaged, there had